Every Time You Go
by Sanqhian
Summary: Things have gone wrong on a hunt and Dean is slipping away, but can Castiel convince him to stay? (Dean/Castiel, m/m, slash)
1. Chapter 1

**Every Time You Go**

* * *

The clinking of beer bottles meant victory, a job well done, it was a pat on the back for surviving another night. The chime of laughter echoed off the walls of the bunker, good cheer shared by friends battered and bruised and alive. Sam was deep into recounting the harrowing hunt like none of them had been there at his side, but it was okay, they threw in bits and pieces here and there, adding their voices to the mix.

Except for Dean.

He sat a short distance away in the back of the room and if any of them noticed his lack of participation they kept it to themselves. Everything felt… wrong, from the stiffness of the wall at his back to the glass of the bottle neck his fingers curled around.

Dean's gaze stole over Sam with his shaggy hair and a deep purple shadowing his left eye, the result of a well-placed blow from an opponent. Across from Sam was Ketch, of all people, his British accent always grating to Dean, perhaps because it reminded him of Crowley and that brought with it a bubbling pot of mixed emotions he refused to deal with. And of course, there was Cas, spots of blood on his trench coat.

Warriors, each and every one of them.

Dean became oddly fixated on those red splatters, the edges of his vision blurring, until they were all he saw. They seemed to grow more vivid, almost neon.

He closed his eyes, seeing them on the insides of his eyelids. Dean bit his bottom lip, acutely aware of each beat his heart took. Their words became foggy, almost like they were drifting away from each other, or he was sinking, swallowed up by water.

Fear startled Dean, his grip tightening on the bottle.

Sam clinked his bottle against Ketch's, the sound oddly loud, ringing out over the room. And Cas, his eyes were on Dean, the expression on his face one that sent a chill through Dean. Meeting the angel's gaze he saw the fear he felt, a shiver passing over him, warmth seeping from his body.

Pain blossomed in his side, a soreness akin to a pulled muscle, but with each exhale it grew worse. Sharper. More insistent. Dean tore his gaze from Cas, glancing down at his side and noting a patch of red on his shirt.

Blood.

And it was spreading.

He looked to Cas hoping for an explanation, terrified to find the angel's face marred by sorrow, his eyes glistening with tears. Sam and Ketch continued to laugh and talk, oblivious to anything and everyone else around them. Fire burned in Dean's side, a sensation familiar to him after countless years hunting every manner of monster in the darkness of night. In a way, he too had become a monster.

By now the stain had grown twice the size of his hand and it's warmth was more real than the chill of the glass against his fingers.

" _Dean,"_ someone whispered his name.

His gaze shifted to Cas yet again. He could see the angel's lips moving, but aside from that one utterance he failed to hear anything else, the rest of Cas's words getting lost somewhere in the space between them. Sharp radiating jabs sliced up his side, prompting Dean to gasp, the beer bottle slipping from his grip. When it met with the floor it shattered, the amber liquid inside seeping out. Neither Ketch nor Sam seemed to register the sound, too caught up in each other to notice the world around them.

And even as that annoyance registered with Dean, he realized the world was growing dimmer, darker along the edges of his vision. The trio at the table, they wavered, almost as though he was drunk despite his lack of finishing even one alcoholic beverage. Cas reached across the table toward him, the anguish on his face wrapping around Dean's heart, resonating with each beat.

" _Dean!"_

Fingers trembling, Dean reached for the hem of his shirt, the sensation of blood oozing down his side unpleasant in the way it was ticklish. He peeled back the fabric to reveal the hideous wound, ugly in the way it broke through flesh and muscle, jagged around the edges. Impaled, he'd been impaled by something or someone. Did he need to be worried about toxins in the wound, something that would kill him as it coursed through his body undetected until it was too late?

 _How did the others not notice? How did I..._

His stomach roiled, what felt like bile rising up his throat, but when it hit his tongue, he tasted copper, blood bubbling past his lips. By now panic had settled heavily on his shoulders, his heart beating frantically, desperately in his chest, pushing more of the vital substance from his body. Dizziness swept over Dean, causing him to sway where he sat, and all he wanted was for one person to notice, for Sam to glance in his direction.

Desperately he tried to speak his brother's name.

Even to call out to Ketch.

But all that came out was a sob.

Tears wet his cheeks.

" _Dean!"_ Cas was reaching out to him, arm outstretched over the table. Why wasn't his reaction enough to stir Sam and Ketch, to grab their attention?

The room dipped and twirled.

Dean felt himself teeter, imagining he was about to crash to the ground like the bottle; would he also shatter upon impact? His vision grew darker and he wondered if this time would be it, his final dance with Death. _And just where is she?_ Now seemed like the right time for her to pop in to tell him it was over, that there would be no resurrection for him this time, his dance card was full. He was done. Kaput.

Darkness washed over him...

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"Dean, wake up," came Cas's familiar gruff voice, this time edged with panic. "Please."

Pain sang from nearly every nerve in his body as Dean slowly swam back to the surface of consciousness. He gasped for breath, finding it was hard to draw oxygen deep into his lungs, opting for short struggling gasps. Something rattled in his chest, the tanginess of blood lingering in his mouth. Reality crept over him, the image of the cheery time in the bunker fading into oblivion, a gift, albeit cruel, from his frantic mind. Trees stretched overhead and beyond their shadowed leaves he could see twinkling stars. _The moon isn't out tonight, that's why we were hunting it._

The next thing he became aware of was a figure at his side and for a split second he worried it was the monster waiting to finish him off. Dean tried to move, to throw himself away from the creature and its unnaturally long claws, but his body betrayed him and there he remained, prone in a bed of dirt and pine needles. Heat burned in his side, bringing forth the memory of the wound.

The figure reached out.

Dean flinched.

And a hand brushed against his cheek. "You're awake." Cas leaned forward, his eyes searching Dean's.

He didn't care for the sorrow he saw etched on the angel's face. He'd been down and out before, been to Hell and back, faced The End more times than he cared to count, but something about that look...

"Cas..." he managed to whisper.

There came the crunching of leaves and twigs under the weighted footfall of something approaching. Another shot of panic, this one laced with adrenaline, spiked his heart rate. What if the evil responsible for his current state was returning to hasten his departure? Dean grasped at Cas's jacket, the tan duster he'd always worn.

"Castiel, Dean," came the British accented voice of Ketch, one who Dean remained on the fence about; ally or foe? "Shit." Ketch came into view looking battle worn, tired, a smear of something indistinguishable in the dark across his left cheek, could have been blood, could have been mud. "How bad is he?"

"Go find Sam," was all Cad said, his gaze in Dean never wavering.

"Cas…"

"Go!" Castiel barked.

Ketch needed no further convincing, traipsing away through the underbrush. Dean heard him depart, and yet, despite his wavering opinion of the man he wanted him to stay. Death, it turned out, was a scary and lonely transition. He didn't want to go alone.

And Sammy, did he want to have a chance to say goodbye to his baby brother? Could he bare the tears and the heartbreak he'd see? Sure, they'd been down this road so many times before, but there was always the hope they'd see each other again. They always found a way, even if some of their choices turned out questionable in the end.

 _And why are you so certain this is the end?_

"Dean, look at me."

It was getting harder to breathe.

"Let me do it," pleaded Castiel, his eyes searching Dean's. "Please, let me save you."

He wanted to say no, but found it easier to shake his head a fraction of an inch.

"You are a foolish, stubborn man, Dean Winchester."

"Damn…straight." He coughed, his grip on Cas's jacket tightening. The series of coughs wracked his body, shaking him to the core, pushing more blood from the wound in his side. Some bubbled up in his mouth, dripping out the side to run down his chin. He was beginning to feel cold.

Castiel hooked an arm under him and pulled him close, hugging him, bent over him. For the first time since they met, Dean saw tears glistening in Cas's eyes. He didn't know angels could or even old cry, and he especially didn't expect it to happen because of him. He welcomed Cas's warmth, wishing for so many things, words unsaid and impulses left ignored. If only he had a chance to do it all over again…

 _You do, just tell him yes._

Dean closed his eyes, his energy waning. He wanted to sleep, to fall into the embrace of the darkness that beckoned to him.

"Please, Dean, let me save you," Cas pleaded. "I can't imagine this world without. I need you here." Cas placed a hand on Dean's chest.

The words Cas spoke took Dean by surprise, and really, they shouldn't have, after all hadn't he known on some level that his feelings for Castiel were mutual? Hadn't he seen them mirrored in the angel's eyes? Oh, but to hear the love spoken out loud, even if the 'L' word itself hadn't been involved, it was magnificent. The sort of thing Dean never expected to happen. Who could love a man like him, who could love his life with him? Being a hunter, it was all he knew and all he was destined to be.

 _And now it's come to an end. Finally._

The hand moved from his chest to cup his cheek. By now he could no longer feel his legs, the numbness of death having crept over them. Hell, even the life ending wound in his side had lost its sting.

"Dean," it came out gruff, dripping with emotion.

Before he could reply the sound of hurried steps reached his ears and a moment later Sam arrived, Ketch not too far behind.

"Dean!" exclaimed Sam, falling to his knees at Dean's side. With some pleasure, Dean remained cradled in Castiel's arms. "Oh god." Sam's eyes were wide with fright, a cut on his forehead along his hairline slowly bleeding.

 _How did I end up so much worse than everyone else?_

 _Ambush,_ the word slipped effortlessly across his mind, the memory of what happened a jumbled mess. Whatever they'd been hunting, it had grabbed him from behind. After that all he could remember was the shock of being impaled and then whisked away to the bunker, no doubt courtesy of his mind as he lay dying in the forest.

Sam seemed unsure of touching him. "We can save him, right?" The question directed at Castiel. "He isn't too bad off. We've dealt with worse."

"The toxin," Ketch spoke softly, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Its likely ravaged his body-"

"Castiel has brought people back from the dead," snapped Sam, shrugging off Ketch's hand. "He can save Dean from this. He has to."

Dean could feel his heart slowing and he'd grown so cold. He wanted to ask Cats to pull him closer, desperate for a bit of warmth. Dying should have bothered him more, what with all the things he was leaving undone, and who would watch after Sammy like he promised his dad he would do? How would Sammy go on knowing there was no way to get him back? Dean already knew, though, that Sam would search every book and scroll, every scrap of writing in the bunker in the hopes of finding a way to bring him back.

Did he even want to come back?

Admittedly, part of him was tired of the constant hunting, the fact that they never seemed to gain any ground against the nastiness in the world. One big bad after another, they closed the lid on one just to have another pop up. It's like the world was doomed. It might be nice to rest.

Sam was yelling. "Do something! Can't you see he needs you?"

"I can't," replied Castiel through gritted teeth. "He won't let me."

"So? Damn it, Cas." There were tears coursing done Sam's cheeks. His anger dissipated. "Please. Please don't let him go."

Those heavenly eyes met his again. Dean could feel it, his last breath was coming. The warmth of Cas's hand on his cheek again. "Stay with me, Dean. With us."

His eyelids fluttered, his breathing grew weaker. Dean tried to speak, his lips moving, but if he actually managed to get the words out he failed to hear them.

"What's he saying?"

For some reason he was shot back to the moment he watched Lucifer erase Castiel, taking the angel from his life. How lost he'd been, broken in ways he'd never known possible. Sure, he thought he'd experienced love before, having enjoyed the company of a few lovely ladies over the years, and then there was Benny, the vampire. There was a wicked secret he'd managed to keep to himself, the attraction he'd felt for the vampire. But Castiel… No one could ever hope to hold a candle to the angel.

Castiel leaned close. "What are you saying?"

"I…" A cough stole his breath. Dean closed his eyes. "…love…you."

"Dean," the emotion in Cas's voice, oh, how it shattered him inside and out. "I can't-" The rest of the sentence was lost to Dean as he let go, his hand slipping away from Castiel's coat.

He no longer felt the cold.

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There was no light at the end of tunnel like everyone thought. Darkness never-ending welcomed Dean and he floated weightlessly, wondering if this was how it would be for eternity. He was likely to lose what remained of his mind, lost in this nothingness, only memories of little Sammy and what might-have-been with Castiel to keep him company. But while he could recall the sound of Sam's laugh, he couldn't conjure up the warmth of Castiel's touch. Dean closed his eyes, desperate to remember the peace the angel's touch brought to him.

And there it was, a spreading warmth over his heart. Dean saw it as a soft glowing light, imagined that he was seeing what love looked like, wondering why it wasn't pink or red, deciding it didn't matter.

 _I miss him._

 _I wish I could see him just one more time._

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"Dean?" A whisper in the inky black. "Dean? Come back to me, please. Please."

Dean cracked his eyes open, peering through the blurriness, expecting to see more of the same nothing, surprised to note there was now light and shadows. He became aware of someone at his side. Where had the darkness gone, who chased it away?

A hand held his, fingers laced together, and his troubles faded away. Dean shut his eyes. Slowly his body began to waken, from the various aches of sore muscles to the dull throbbing in his side, and the headache pounding behind his eyes, like someone had his head in a vice grip. Dean grit his teeth, wishing to go back to that place beyond it all where it was just him. Floating. Weightless. Beyond the trappings of a mortal body.

"Dean?"

He blinked once, twice, the room coming into focus. The bunker, his bedroom in the bunker. But what if the forest, had it all been some horrible dream cooked up by a night of too much merrymaking? The first thing he noticed was Sam standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a tired, haggard expression on his face.

A ghost of a smile graced his lips. "Nice to still have you around. Don't be mad at him."

Dean wanted to ask who, then remembered the way Castiel looked at him, his departing words to the angel. He shifted his gaze to his side, his hand involuntarily squeezing Castiel's. The angel sat in a chair by his bed, slumped forward, his head resting on the mattress.

 _Since when do angels sleep?_

It was like Sam could read his mind. "It took so much out of him, saving you. For a while there Ketch and I thought we'd lost you both."

"I asked…" His throat was dry, what he wouldn't give for a little something to drink. "Not to."

Anger flashed across Sam's features. "Who cares? He did it because he loved you, you damn fool. Why can't you see that? The rest of us can, even Crowley saw it, for crying out loud. The freakin' King of Hell himself. Can't you see you're his heaven?" His shoulders slumped. "We all want you here, Dean. We need you," he nearly whispered the last part, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Alone with Castiel, Dean reached across his body and placed his hand on Cas's head, burying his fingers in the angel's hair. Castiel didn't stir, no doubt worn out, weakened by the use of his power; which had been up and down ever since the lockdown in Heaven.

"I didn't want you to do this to yourself, not for me," Dean whispered, his throat scratchy, sore. "Never for me." His eyes closed as he drifted toward slumber. The sensation of someone squeezing his hand pulled him back, his eyelids fluttering open. Castro was awake, but pale and looking every bit as hellos as he felt. "Why?" was all Dean could manage.

Castiel drew his thumb along Dean's jawline and over his lips. "Simple."

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Dean's, the kiss tender and sweet. There was a flutter in Dean's stomach, a rush of heat making the bitter cold touch of death a distant memory. It ended much too soon and he found himself gazing into in those wonderful eyes.

"I love you, Dean," Castiel said, his voice gruffer than usual. "From the moment my hand touched you in hell and dragged you back." He looked prepared to say more, but Dean out a finger to Cas's lips.

"I'm tired," he whispered. He shifted his position in the bed, creating room for Castiel to slide in beside him, which he did. Castiel curled up at his side, resting his head on Dean's chest. Dean wrapped an arm around him, wanting to keep him close, afraid of waking to find Castiel gone. Slumped tugged at him, drawing him back to oblivion, but before he slipped away Dean managed to mutter, "I love you, too."


	2. Chapter 2

His mind, feverish with a lingering trace of toxin, plagued Dean with nightmares, each one worse than the last as his subconscious dug into the recesses, forcing him to relive some of the worst moments of his life. Everything from their mother burning to discovering Sam's demon blood addiction to his torture in hell and his unwelcome time in purgatory. Nothing was off limits. And throughout it all, Dean was on the run, desperate to get away from a dark shadow that always lurked on the edge of his vision. The very same shadow he blamed for the bone chilling sinister laugh that played as an undercurrent, the soundtrack to his nightmare, stuck on a continuous loop.

When he finally managed to escape, returning to the world of the living, Dean found the room dark and the space beside him empty; had Cas ever truly been there with him or was that also some sort of dream, another trick of his addled mind?

Dean lay still listening to the sound of his own breathing. It was ragged, like something loose was rattling around in his chest. And it hurt, taking deep breaths so he avoided it. He'd dealt with his fair share of injuries over the years, but this one was taking a toll, and he didn't want to admit, even to himself. Just laying there he could feel every muscle fiber, finding it was reminiscent of having put in a killer workout the day before, or how he usually felt after a particularly dicey monster tangle, and essentially, isn't that exactly what happened?

Finally, he decided to stir, to test the overall condition of his body. Dean lifted himself up, laying propped up on his elbows, and clenched his teeth as a wave of nausea swept over him. He shut his eyes and waited for it to pass, instead it grew steadily worse until he could no longer ignore it. He knew he wasn't going to be quick enough to reach the bathroom, and even if he thought he stood a chance he didn't exactly trust his legs at this point, so he grabbed for the nearby trashcan and emptied his stomach. There shouldn't have been much in it, all things consider, or at least so he figured, but bile burned his throat on the way up and it came out alarmingly tinged with blood.

Was he bleeding internally? Hadn't Cas healed him?

Dean set down the can when he was certain there was nothing left to add. He considered rolling over and just remaining in place until someone came to check on him, but he needed to pee.

So he pushed himself up into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room twirled. A dull throb, persistent, settled in the base of his skull. He screwed his eyes shut, fearful of a second date with the can. How long were these venomous affects going to last? What had attacked him again? Dean searched his memories, scoured his mind. Why couldn't he remembered what attacked him? Why couldn't he recall the name or even an image of the creature?

Or even why they were out there to begin with?

What sent them into the woods?

Patches of his memory were missing, facts and actions just gone, and of all the things he'd encountered in his life this scared Dean. So he chose, at least for the time being, not to think of, he had a goal in mind. The bathroom. His bladder was pleading for him to empty it. Keeping a hand firmly on the nightstand, putting a great deal of his weight behind it, Dean got to his feet; which was easier said than done, his knees shaky. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Dean stood, or more like leaned, listing to the side supported by the table. The sickening twist returned to his stomach, the hint of bile in his throat.

His fingers curled against the wood, refusing to give in to what he saw as weakness. Dean forced himself to stand talk and straight, taking a purposeful step toward the bathroom. Only to wind up placing his palm flat against the wall. A touch of anger burned within. He loathed feeling frail, fragile. Like a man in the end stages of his life, which he might very well be for what did he know, Dean crossed his room and slipped into the bathroom. He maintained his dignity, doing his business without face planting into the toilet. At the sink, hunched over, he twisted the faucet, listening to the whisper of the running water.

Something wiggled around in his mind just out of reach.

Dean splashed his face, then cupped his hands and drank. Beer would have been better. Feeling a bit more human, Dean left the bathroom, a little more steady on his feet, and headed foe the door. Though he cast a glance back at his bed, thinking how nice it would be to fall amongst the blankets and succumb to the beckoning darkness. Sweet oblivion. Maybe he'd feel better after a few more hours of sleep.

You won't wake up.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine for somehow he knew it to be true. No, sleep could wait until after he got some answers and reassurances. Sam, his beloved brother, a virtual walking encyclopedia, would know how to fix him, how to make everything all better.

But hasn't Cas already fixed me? Or was that a dream?

Aside from laying on the floor of the forest feeling the creeping touch of death, Dean struggled with reality. There was no doubt in his mind he nearly died, none whatsoever. But to have Cas lay at his side, of that he was less certain. By now Dean had left his room behind, making his way down the hall toward the main room of the bunker. Some part of him, the fighter that refused to believe he was hurt, tried to convince him to detour to the kitchen for beer and pie, but Dean stayed on course. He wanted answers. Sam would have them.

Sammy always did.

Dean made it to the room they always seemed to find themselves, with its welcoming table and the shelves of books, ancient tomes with endless secrets. Sam had been reading his way through the vast library. Research, he called it. Nerdiness, countered Dean, though he joked only because that was their relationship. He welcomed the endless fount of knowledge that was his brother.

The sight of the room was enough to send Dean cartwheeling back to the delusion that he was sitting with them, all of them happily chattering away about another victory while he slowly bled to death, his pleas falling on deaf ears. It sent a shiver up his spine.

The space was empty.

Dean stood with his palms pressed flat against the tabletop. He listened, trying t9 gauge where everyone might be. We're they in the kitchen? Or perhaps training? But he heard nothing save the beating of his own tired, strained heartbeat. Had they left him behind to tackle a new monster in need of putting down? A flutter of jealousy passed through Dean. He loved for the thrill of the hunt. Besides, it gave him a great opportunity to sing one-liners.

"Thanks guys," he grumbled. The idea of beer and a slice of our danced across his mind again. "Might as well make the most of my down time."

Dean pushed away from the table and took a few staggering steps in the direction of the kitchen. He hadn't gotten far, barely clearing the table, when he felt something in his side tear. Oh shit. A quick peek revealed a quickly spreading spot of red on his injured side.

"Deja fucking vu," he swore, shoulders slumping. He'd have to detour, rerouting to treat the wound before indulging his desires. As he shuffled along, more mindful of his wound, Dean began to feel dizzy and wondered if perhaps he'd pushed himself too quickly. But then again, they left him alone, what was he supposed to do, lay in bed and wet himself? "And what about Cas?" The thought just popped out of his mouth.

Yeah, what about Cas? Hadn't he healed him, isn't that what Sam said? And if the power of an Angel wasn't enough to cleanse the toxin from his body and to mend the skin perfectly, then just how bad had the attack been? What the hell hit me? The inability to remember was driving him crazy. It wasn't like him to forget things; another side affect of the monster? Dean clenched his jaw. Needles began to creep slowly down his legs and he feared his knees might buckle.

"Old man, Dean."

He began to shake.

"Come on, I'm almost there."

He could see the open door to the nearest bathroom, knowing there were multiple first aid kits under the sink. Why, at this point, didn't they just keep one in the main room? What if he didn't make it in time? What if he…

The thought never finished as his fear came true. He reached the doorway, grasping desperately for the frame as he lost all feeling in his legs and saw the floor rising up quickly to meet him.


	3. Chapter 3

"What the hell are you doing, you idjit? This ain't the time to be laying around like you're on vacation in the Bahamas," the gruff voice barked.

Dean stirred, eyes fluttering open to find he was staring at the ceiling. His head was swimming, a dull throbbing in the base of his skull. His mouth was dry, gritty, and he'd kill for a drink, something to wet his whistle. The floor was hard and unforgiving on his back. He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if maybe he'd gone on a bender the night before and passed out drunk on the floor, why else would he feel like such shit? Dean licked his lips, groaning. Someone jabbed him rudely in the gut.

"Get your ass up, boy!"

That voice, he knew it, had grown up hearing it, had not only loved it, but missed it every time he needed a little guidance. _How is it possible? How can he be here? Unless..._ Dean lifted his head, taking in his surroundings. Hadn't he been in the bunker mere moments ago? Or was it the forest laying there with Cas and all the others leaning over him? It was muddled, the images swirling around in his brain. The shelves and their books, they were gone, at least in a way. In Bobby's house things were different, the quality of organization different from the way the Men of Letters kept things. There was disarray, just the way Bobby liked it. Sammy once made the mistake of trying to fix things when they were younger, left there by their dad while he went off on a hunt that was too dangerous for them. Unlike the attack, Dean recalled that day in perfect detail, right down to the way Bobby's face turned red when he caught Sammy rearranging things on a shelf by the fireplace, and the way he'd comforted his brother later in the evening when they'd gone to bed.

"How..."

"How? The how isn't the important part," Bobby remarked. "I need you to get up, Dean, get up and get moving. I shouldn't be more mobile than you."

At some point he knew that poor joke would have prompted an equally as poor jab back at a man he considered his second father. Or maybe Bobby had been more of a father to him than his own. No. Dean scrunched up his face, concentrating. The throbbing grew worse. His father, _their_ father, had been a remarkable man. Yes, there were things he could have done better, choices that could have worked out better for them, all of them, but in the end dad had done the best he could with the situation thrust upon him. None of them could have known, not mom, not dad, not even Bobby. None of them knew the trail would lead them to so much death and loss and... _Why does my side hurt?_

"Come on, boy, while the vampires ain't bitin'."

Getting his arms under him, Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position, fully expecting to watch his world spin like a top, for a wave of nausea to sweep over him. Neither happened. Instead he found his gaze settling on Bobby, the wheelchair maverick who kicked ass better than some of the more able-body hunters out there, a few choice names slipping across his mind. Emotions stirred in his chest. Seeing Bobby again after all this time, he never thought this moment would happen, not until...

"Well look who finally decided to join the party," quipped another familiar voice. He knew of two people who spoke with that British accent, neither of which he wanted to see now. Dean glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, wondering what the King of Hell was doing in Bobby's house. Since when had the two of them gotten along? Usually Bobby allowed the egotistical demon in only in times of true, world ending trouble. Was this one of those times? Whatever it was that attacked him in the woods, could this all be linked to that, and if so, where was everyone else? Were they out hunting? Why wasn't he helping them? "Having a nice little nap?"

"What's going on? Why am I here?"

 _Why do I feel cold?_

"Oh, the answer to that one is quite easy," Bobby started, pouring himself a shot.

"Just tell the boy he's dying," cut-in Crowley. "Get it out in the open, do the dirty deed. He has a right to know."

 _Dying._ The word echoed in the confines of his skull, seeming to feed the throbbing as it grew steadily worse, and the chill he felt, it was creeping over him like he'd been dropped in an icy lake. It made sense, he realized, all the sense in the world, especially with his disjointed memory. It also explained his current associates, well, at least one of them. He turned a dagger glare at Crowley trying to figure out what he was up to. How could he be here? Was this one of those weird slips in time or...?

"I don't understand," Dean said. "You," he pointed to Bobby, "and you," he pointed to Crowley, "how?"

Crowley shrugged, the movement always looking odd on him. "It's your brain, squirrel, this is your show, we're just here for the ride. It's not my fault you fancy me, always suspected you did, even though it was your brother who had the demon fling." Crowley winked at him. "Maybe some other time, sweetheart."

"I don't..."

"You're dying," Crowley stated. "Six feet deep."

 _Already been down that road, more than once. I'm not afraid of it anymore. Death and I..._

"How..."

Bobby swirled the liquid in his tumbler. "I wouldn't waste too much time thinking about it. Doesn't matter who we are, what does matter is getting you to wake up and leave. You're dying, Dean, do you hear me? You're well on your way to winding up with me here in..." He gestured with his hands. "Whatever this is. I've never been able to figure out if it's heaven or hell, and douche bag over there won't tell me."

"I'm not the real Crowley. You aren't the real Bobby."

"So _who,_ what are you? My angel and demon?"

Crowley snickered. "We both know who your angel is, don't we? Have you two ever, you know? Actually," he quickly followed up, "don't answer that, I don't want to know."

"Stop listening to him," Bobby interjected. He locked eyes with Dean. "Listen to me, you idjit, I want you to wake up. Cas did what he could to help you, used up most of his grace to heal you and _it didn't work._ You're still dying. At any moment," he snapped his fingers, "over. Singing with the angels up in heaven."

"Actually, I suspect he might be going," Crowley pointed down, whistling.

A moment passed before Bobby slowly nodded. "You know, that might actually help now that you mention it."

Dean hugged himself, shivering, his teeth chattering. The cold he'd been feeling had washed over him, stealing his breath, numbing his extremities. The edges of his vision began to blur. _Not again, please not again._ Sharp, excruciating pain shot through his side and he was on the verge of screaming, his body going ridged...

And...

He was back in the bunker, gasping for breath, tears wetting his cheeks, blood soaking the side of his shirt. He trembled, whimpering, not sure if the tears were from being torn away from Bobby or because he knew the truth, understood it finally.

No matter what any of them did, no matter how many books they poured through or how much Cas drained his grace, it would never be enough to save him. He was going to die.

"Sammy..."

He tasted blood in the back of his throat.

"Please," he coughed. He could feel it oozing out the corner of his mouth. More tears spilled forth. "Someone..." _I don't want to die alone._


	4. Chapter 4

"It's not a very comforting thought, is it, the prospect of taking your last breath with no one to hold your hand, to speak lovingly, to reassure you, or to simply bare witness to the end of your story," spoke a voice Dean knew well and had never expected to hear again. "Not a single soul to offer even a shred of comfort during a frightening time."

By now I shouldn't be surprised. Maybe this is part of a dream, another dirty trick of the toxin of… whatever is killing me.

"Oh now, where would the fun be in that?"

Dean licked his lips, willing himself to get up, to move, but his legs refused to listen to the signals sent by his brain and he remained prone on the floor. His head was throbbing, the worst of the pain centered between his eyes, almost as if someone set off a teeny tiny bomb in his skull. The hint of copper lingered in the back of his throat.

He may have been unable to move, but he found his voice, the words coming out in what could only be described as a harsh whisper. His voice didn't sound like his. "Just kill me already."

"Now, now, that would be much too easy and given how things went last time…"

There came the sound of a chair scrapping across the floor, followed by the tap-tap of a silver tipped walking stick. Dean clenched his jaw, holding tightly to the anger building within. When the older man came into sight, looming over Dean, ever mindful to stay out of reach, he understood this was real.

"Death," he said.

The old man smiled. "Dean. It's been a while."

"I… killed you."

Death arched an eyebrow. He stood with both hands on the head of his walking stick. "Death is eternal, Dean, you should know that better than anyone. Do you not recall our conversation that fateful day? How I told you, come the end, I would reap him, too?"

"…Billy…"

"Ah, yes, sweet Billy. She's a good reaper. I appointed her to handle things while I took a little vacation, if you will."

Of course. Dean found himself torn, unsure of whether or not he should be happy the old man was back. They had a tumultuous friendship, to say the least, but with Billy, he never quite knew where he stood. He'd pissed her off so many times.

You tried to kill the old man, think that isn't going to stir up some resentment? Why should he bother to help you this time? He's likely here to gloat about finally laying claim to your soul. And then where do I go? Back to Hell? Back to Purgatory? Do I even have a shot of getting into Heaven? There's so much blood on my hands. So many lives lost because of me, do they outweigh the lives I've saved? Is the balance equal?

"You know, Dean, you've always been an interesting sort. A bit of a thorn in my side, yes, especially since you've mucked things up by not staying dead." Death tapped him gently in the ribs. "And what's dead is meant to stay that way."

Ghosts. Zombies. Vampires.

The old man shrugged. "Technically all still dead, Dean."

He drew in a ragged breath, something rattling in his lungs. To chase the chill from his fingers, Dean clenched and unclenched his hands. When would the others be getting back, any moment now, right? Why would they ever leave him alone in this condition?

"Perhaps because they don't care."

"Stay… out of my… head," Dean said through teeth clenched more from pain than anger. His breathing at this point had grown shallow, each drag of oxygen hurting, but never enough. Is this how it ends? "Can you…"

"Can I?"

"Please."

"What?"

"Do it already!" Dean yelled, tears blurred his vision. At this point he no longer cared where his soul went, he merely wanted to be free of the pain, the fear he wasn't entirely used to.

Death shook his head, he opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he'd been on the verge of saying was cut off. The bunker echoed with the sounds of the door opening, voices spilling in. A giggle bubbled out of Dean as Death vanished from sight, the old man giving him one last look, his head titled to the side. What he saw in those eyes... The guys sounded chipper or at least animated as they made their way down the stairs. Were they arguing, was that what it heard, them arguing about... burgers? Dean tried to yell, but there wasn't enough oxygen left in his lungs to produce the sound, and his heart, it was a balloon close to bursting, working frantically to keep his body functioning. The edges of his vision grew dark and Dean fought to stay in the conscious world. He was so tired of blacking out, of slipping away...

Afraid that next time would be the last time.

"Help," he managed in a weak whisper that barely reached his own ears.

Suddenly the noises stopped. Their voices died away. Don't let this be another trick. Don't be another dream.

The silence was broken by Sam. "Cas, what's wrong?" There was a heartbeat of silence. "Cas?"

"DEAN!" came the thunderous yell from the angel, followed quickly by the surprised cry of Sam.

Running steps brought Cas closer and he nearly tripped over Dean, stopping just short. The look of surprise on his face was there a split-second before being replaced with a quick succession of relief, questioning, sorrow, and love. He fell to his knees, jettisoning Dean back to that moment in the forest when this whole horrible mess started, and put his hand on Dean's chest.

The others appeared behind him. "Dean, what the hell are you doing at here?"

Crowley, meanwhile, sidestepped all of them, stopping in the exact spot where Death had stood moments ago, waving his hand about on the air. "He was here," he said, directing his gaze back over his shoulder to meet Cas's. "That's why, you sensed him, and..."

Brow furrowed, Sam looked from one to the other. "Someone care to explain?"

"Death was here," Crowley answered. "He came for Dean and my guess is we interrupted his plans."

"Death? He? You mean Billy?"

Dean fought to grab hold of Cas's hand, holding it tightly in his own. Warm, the angel was ever so pleasantly warm. Just having him around brought a sense of comfort, of peace, and much in the way Death had pointed, it made the prospect of dying easier. He wasn't alone anymore. They were here. He could see the one last time and say his goodbyes, because no matter what they did... And how did he tell them their efforts would always be met with failure? Cas could use up every last ounce of his grace and Crowley could scour the bowels of Hell—if he so desired—and Sam could read until his eyes bled, none of them would succeed.

"I don't understand," Sam said, shaking his head. The greasy bag of burgers in his hand had become forgotten, unimportant. "I thought Cas saved him. We checked, the toxin was gone."

"We must have missed something," Crowley suggested. "The beast, it's stronger than we realized."

Ketch appeared, his eyes clouded, a grim set to his mouth. "I tried to tell all of you, but none of you wanted to listen. That monster, it wasn't normal, it was a hybrid, a science experiment gone wrong. Think Frankenstein, but on a much bigger, deadlier scale. There's no telling what's going on inside of him, however, it's clear to see that angel grace is pointless."

"I am not pointless," Cas growled.

"In this case, I'm afraid all your grace will do is keep him alive in an effort to prolong the inevitable."

Sam dropped the bag, whirling on Ketch and grabbing hold of his shirt. "What are you not telling us? This is your fault! He's dying because of you and I swear, if you don't tell me how to save him you'll be the next one to lose their life."

The disgraced British Man of Letters held up his hands. "Look, I don't know what the cure is, for sure, I can only suggest a means by which his life may be saved."

"What is it?"

"Burn it out of him," Ketch said, looking at all of them in turn, before settling his gaze permanently on Dean. "You need to take him to Lucifer."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Note:** My apologies for the delayed update! I had a deadline to meet, hit the busiest week of the year at work, and discovered my sweet puppy-dog has cancer so I've been a touch preoccupied.

* * *

If at all possible the color drained from Sam's face, leaving him as pale as some of the spooks in Hollywood, which Dean realized were nothing like the dead he and Sam spent their lives hunting. Maybe, if he managed to somehow survive what was looking more and more like his permanent ending, he'd considered a slower way of life and consult with a few special effects guys to help make movie monsters more believable. And wouldn't it be grand if he could recall the one responsible for his current predicament? What had Ketch said, something about it being a science experiment, a hybrid gone wrong? Who the fuck is making hybrid monsters? Why the hell would anyone ever want to do such a thing, wasn't the world already a bad enough place?

He coughed, a feeble sound, but it hurt, nails grinding in his lungs and trying to force their way up his throat. The taste of copper grew stronger.

"Lucifer?" Sam said, having released his grip on Brit, stumbling backward. "Have you lost any and all trace of common sense? You want to drag Lucifer into this? And what," Sam said, each word spilling forth building the anger inside of him, "feed a defenseless Dean right into his clutches? Please, someone explain to me how this is a good idea?"

"We aren't doing it," seconded Cas. He may or may not have been squeezing Dean's hand still, Dean couldn't tell. The warmth Cas brought for those few moments was already long gone, whisked away by the chill of the grave. "It's a foolish move."

Maybe dying won't be so bad. Finally dying. None of this coming back to keep fighting the good fight. I'll be able to rest in peace. No more crossing the country to battle in the darkness of night. No more bumps and bruises and watching the people I love suffer or be taken away from me. Yeah, maybe death is okay, maybe it's not as bad as I originally thought. Of course, if I wind up in hell again it'll be a different story.

He shifted his gaze to Cas, experiencing a flutter in his chest. The one and only good thing to come from his stint in that damned place. They tortured him, twisted his way of thinking until they turned him into the one inflicting suffering, and part of him actually enjoyed it, which he never forgave himself for. But in the end he was rewarded with Castiel, an angel who saw something good enough in him to grab him and free him. The handprint Cas left burned upon his skin, nobody knew, but often when alone Dean would place his own hand over the mark and close his eyes, able to still feel Cas's fingers, his palm.

Cas saved him. Risked so much over the following years.

For him.

And here I am considering letting go and being done with it all.

"Do you guys have any other options?" Ketch asked, straightening his shirt. "I'm open to them if you do." He put up his hand to silence any protest from Sam. "And with the time you'll waste pouring over the documents contained here he will die. Look at him. He doesn't have much time left."

Yes, look at me. See me down here struggling to fill my lungs with oxygen. And the lot of you are starting to blur. Am I crying?

"Cas, come on, surely you see the absolute stupidity of this," Sam said. He gestured at Crowley. "Even he's mum on the idea."

"That's because, well, yes, I do think it a rather questionable idea, I'm not the one who got hung up on that… thing. Not am I the one currently laying on the floor dying while people picked around me," he answered.

"Here's right," Cas relented, turning his focus back to Dean. "The decision isn't yours to make, it's Deans."

"You're out of your minds," Sam said, shaking his head.

"No," added Ketch, "I must agree, it should be left up to your brother on whether he wishes to face Lucifer. It's his life and last time I checked we were all responsible for our own choices. Perhaps," he said with an added shrug, "after everything you've been through, all the losses you've suffered, perhaps he's ready to be done and at peace." Ketch was quick to step back out of Sam's reach, his hands up in a defenseless position. "I'm merely speculating. I'm not saying leave him to die without at least asking him what he wants."

"Get the hell out of here," Sam said through clenched teeth.

Castiel stood, his presence demanding their attention. "I agree. This is Dean's choice."

My choice. What do I want? Laying there like a fish on a boat deck, gasping for air, he'd listened to them argue about what they wanted, how they wanted to approach solving whatever aimed him, and what, pray tell, did he want? Despite the anguish written on Sam's face, Dean freely admitted, at least to himself because talking was a bitch and he didn't want to further hurt Sam, what Ketch said held a kernel of truth. He was tired. Tired of constantly fighting the dastardly evils of the world while repeatedly losing family and friends, and where they even getting anywhere? Every single time they celebrated a victory, saving the world from sinister actions without thanks or recognition, which yeah, wasn't the reason he did what he did, but it'd be nice once in a while—and I've always wanted a parade in my honor, one with lots of our and beer—the next oogy boogey waltzed in demanding their attention. It's like they weren't even making a dent. And every hunter knew, making it out of the job alive was practically unheard of; something always got them in the end.

But to stay, it meant protecting Sammy, which he promised dad he'd always do. And time with Castiel, the one who made him feel more alive than anyone else had in a very long time. Maybe they could have something, maybe not, leaving took away any chance of finding out.

Lucifer. That's the really issue here. What if I agree to this crazy idea, and let's be honest, we've certainly done crazier, will he help? I locked him in a cage. I escaped his unholy sanctuary. We've used him. Why should I think for a second he'll care if I love or die? For all I know my soul winds up in hell, right where he wants it.

"Tick, tick Dean," Death said, appearing at his feet. A quick glance around revealed the others moving slowly, almost like swimming through gelatin. Death could slow time, it shouldn't have surprised him in the least. "Every second draws you one step closer to my doorstep. Better make the right decision, oh, but which one is it?" Death

stood with his walking stick in front, both hands resting on the top. "Does Dean Winchester suffocate here on the floor of his ancestral home or does he face the man in the cage to see how his fortune flows?"

Death winked out of sight. The world resumed its normal speed.

"Do…it," he grumbled, his words easily lost under their heated debate of who was right and who was wrong. If Dean could have reached the bag of food he might have found the strength to throw a handful of French fries at someone, anything to get their attention. He sucked in as much oxygen as he could, his lungs burning, his chest aching, and have out a mighty, yet very meek growl, "do it!"

Silence reigned as 3 sets of eyes turned in his direction.

"Dean-" Sammy started.

Dean shook his head. He couldn't feel anything below his waist. He was chilly, and from his vantage point he spied Death in the next room. "Please." He'd beg if he had to. "Do it. Take me…to…Lucifer."


	6. Chapter 6

The fact that any of them willing went along with his request was crazy enough, but the fact that he now sat in the throne once occupied by the fallen angel himself, it sent a shiver down his spine. The sensation that washed over him, it was hard for him to grasp, to understand, for him to be in this place when he was this close to being swallowed by the darkness... It was like Hell whispered to him, the demons he'd sent there, the ones who'd been there when he... Now was not the time to be thinking about the torture, the things he did when he'd given his soul to save Sam. The road they'd been down, the things they did and the monsters they dealt with, banishing back to the places from where they came to... Best not to think where they went. For all he knew they were waiting for him to expire.

 _Getting close to it._

Dean continued to breathe shallowly, his chest aching, his vision blurring more and more. He'd lost feeling below the waist and was beyond tired. The one thing he wanted to do more than anything else was to sleep, to drift away and hope that when he woke everything would be okay. But of course, he knew the odds of his actually waking up again so he fought to stay present, clinging to their voices as they argued. Still.

"How can any of you seriously think this is a good idea? Come on," Sam growled, hands in his pockets. "You know as well as I do that Lucifer never does anything simply because he wants to. He's going to want something in return. Are you willing to bargain with him? Because my guess is he's going to see his advantage and take it. He'll probably agree to save Dean for a one way ticket out of the cage. We cannot unleash him on the world. Not again."

"Admirable of you, Sam," Ketch spoke up. He leaned against the wall near the door, somehow casually ignoring the demon that stood in the hall behind him. Yet Dean knew without a shadow of a doubt that if the black-eyed freak made a move Ketch would deal an ending blow within the blink of an eye. Keeping the Brit around hadn't exactly been a pleasing idea to him, what with everything involving their mom, but he'd proven himself to be a useful ally and in their line of work, such a thing was priceless. "Worried about the woes of the world over the life of your own brother. This is what makes you two dangerous, you know that?

"What?"

"Your willingness to sacrifice each other, yourselves, for the greater good."

Sam opened his mouth, ready to lob another complaint or assurance why this was a terrible idea; which if any of them bothered to ask him, Dean would have agreed. But it was the only answer he saw and he was basically grasping at straws at this point. He'd died before, of course, so it wasn't like he was afraid of the end, and it might actually be nice, finally finding some peace of a life like his, however, he couldn't shake the dread wrapped around his shoulder that things would be much worse this time.

"Can y'all stop bickering?" Dean wheezed. His gaze settled on each of them in turn. "Kind of dying over here. And it ain't for a piece of pie." If he'd hoped his attempt at lightening the mood would work he turned out to be wrong. None of them laughed or even cracked a smile. "Tough crowd," he mumbled under his breath.

"I do believe you should all listen to the boy." Death's voice joined the fray, making all of them jump, save for Dean who didn't possess the energy, never mind the fact he'd felt the old man's bitterly cold grip since he'd shown himself back in the bunker. "His time is running quite short. And to be frank, once he's crosses there will be no bringing him back." Death stalked toward him, the top of his came tapping the stone floor and echoing off the walls. "No bargains. No deals. No spells." Death stopped before him, their eyes meeting. Dean shivered, the chill of the grave seeping into his bones. "He will be mine for eternity."

"Sounds like you have your answer, "Ketch spoke, finding his voice first. "Take the risk or lose him forever."

Sam glared, his jaw clenched, mouth set in a thin line. Had his hands been visible Dean suspected they'd be clenched into fists as the desire to punch something, anything, grew stronger in him. How could he get his dear brother to understand that the idea of seeing Lucifer scared him shitless? Every tussle with the Devil cost them dearly, and he was a top-notch conman, cunning and conniving. To stay, though, to stay after sharing the kiss with Cas, he'd face Lucifer even if it meant dragging himself there like a big across the floor.

"Seems rather clear to me," Crowley said, his gaze steadily held on Death. "We save the boy."

"Why does everyone keep calling me boy?" Dean's question went unanswered.

Silence settled on the chamber and Dean noticed the demon behind Ketch was long gone, probably beating a hasty retreat when the old man arrived. None of them seemed ready to make the first move and he was beginning to think he truly would have to crawl his way to Lucifer— _how humiliating_ —when Castiel crossed over to him. Sorrow darkened his eyes, which listened with unshed tears. Their meeting came about because Cas saved him and without realizing he was doing it, Dean touched the spot on his arm where Cas's handprint lingered. Often when alone or when he feared the odds were stacked against him, he did the same thing, discovering it gave him a sense of peace, of comfort. His Angel was always close to him.

 _If only you knew, but then again, maybe you always have and I'm the fool._

"I'm sorry if this hurts," Castiel said, his voice soft.

"If what hurts?"

Without further warning, Castiel picked him up, plucked him from Crowley's throne as if he were little more than a doll. Draped in the angel's arms, Dean wrapped an arm around Castiel's shoulders and somehow resisted the urge to rest his head against Cas. His mind conjured up the two of them in bed, how whole he felt with Castiel curled up at his side. When things were better, when he was on the road to recovery they could discuss the important things, like all the words he kept locked away inside. But would Cas understand? Would he reciprocate entirely? _Or is he merely afraid of me dying and being beyond his reach? A man simply caught up in the moment and failing to think clearly._

Sam practically jumped in Cas's way. "What are you doing?"

"Taking him to Lucifer." The way Cas said it removed any grounds for argument while simultaneously issuing a subtle challenge to Sam to try his luck. It was a right they all knew he'd lose, even if Cas went easy on him. "You can come along or you can stay here. Perhaps you'd even prefer if Crowley took you home."

"I'm not abandoning my brother."

"Sam." Ketch out a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Whatever he said next was lost to Dean as it felt like someone set off a bomb between his eyes. The ricochet through his skull might have turned his brain to jelly had it been more than a sensation and something physical. As it was, Dean gasped, his fingers digging into Cas's back, the copper tang of blood returning to tease his tastebuds.

"Tick tock," Death uttered.

Crowley took a step toward the door. "Allow me to show you the way."

"No need," Cas said, leaving them behind, obviously not caring if any of them bothered to follow. "I know where my brother is, I can feel him. He's waiting for us. He's been waiting this whole time."

 _I hope this doesn't turn out to be a huge a mistake_. But what other choice did he have, giving into the dark void that beckoned to him?


	7. Chapter 7

There were no additional footfalls as they traversed the place Crowley, and Lucifer before him—as far as I know—called home. A peek over Castiel's shoulder revealed empty space. Not even the demons he was certain lurked in the shadows made an appearance. Surely they'd want to take this chance, pounce upon this opportunity to nail him while he was weak, but dare they gather the courage to cross their boss who brought him there? Dean didn't care. What truly bothered him was the lack of Sam's support. Where was his brother when he needed him the most? After everything they'd been through, from the losses of those they would forever hold dear to the personal self-sacrifice Ketch spoke of, where was his dear Sam? Tears burned his eyes, but Dean refused to let them fall, instead tightening his grip on Castiel's coat, his fingers curling into the fabric.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked, his voice raspy, rough. The act of speaking brought forth a fit of coughing and Cas stopped, waiting it out. His ribs ached and he feared one more cough might be the one to set his heart into arrhythmia or with his cursed luck, it would just explode and leave him dead.

In the dark void.

Lost.

With Death.

Cas meet his gaze, those heavenly eyes searching his and sending a thrill of warmth through his cold extremities. "For you Dean, yes, I will do this. I rescued you from Hell before."

"But Lucifer…"

Cas shrugged, an odd experience given their current closeness. "My brother and I, I suspect I will always love him, and in this case, he is the answer we seek."

Dread prompted Dean to utter his next question. "And if he refuses?"

"Then we force him."

Dean's heart fluttered and he was unsure if it was the poison racing along the corridors of his veins or because… This time he rested his head on Cas's shoulder, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be lulled by the motion, and he sank into the memory of waking in bed with Cas. Dare he allow himself to dream of a somewhat normal life, spending precious time with the man who managed to capture his heart? And how it happened, out of the blue, wallowing one night while he sat at the table doing research, and the bang of the door making him look up. There was something in the way Castiel moved down the stairs, his coat billowing slightly behind him, and a lightbulb went off.

His heart stopped, the world slowed, and in that instance he realized that his feeling of friendship for Cas went much deeper.

And he'd never loved a man before.

Well, perhaps with the exception of… Don't go there.

Abruptly, Castiel stopped, a massive wooden door with intricate and ornate sigils carved into, stood before them. Some of the markings Dean knew as enochian, the language of angels. Power radiated from the door, pulsating on the air around them. Wards meant to keep people away as well as maintain hold of the one who was concealed beyond. His gut twisted, tying in knots, and he nearly lost his cool and asked Cas to take him back, to forget about this insane idea, but it was the only route they had before them and come Hell—what a pun—or high water he was going forward.

Under his own power.

"Put me down, Cas," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Life drained away with the tick of each second, leaving him weaker, colder, and his thinking fuzzier.

"Are you sure?"

"He has to walk in there," Ketch said, coming up behind them. "To appear weak before Lucifer… He wishes to be strong and it's admirable, just the sort of thing I'd want to do."

"He is weak," pointed out Cas in his typical matter-of-fact way.

Dean cast his gaze about the hallway, waiting for the others, hoping they were simply bringing up the rear, so to speak. But the space beyond Ketch remained empty, devoid of his brother and Crowley. And given the circumstances, he didn't blame Crowley one second for wanting to keep his distance from Lucifer, the fallen angel he'd helped de-throne and lock away. There was certain to be animosity between the two, why rattle the cage? But Sam… His aloofness hurt perhaps more than the toxin whisking Dean to his everlasting eternity. But he buried the hurt and disappointment deep inside. He could deal with another time. He could also question why Ketch felt the need to be loyal while the others wavered. Did the disgraced Man of Letters think this would win him favor? Did he think it erased everything that transpired between them, leaving him with a clean slate and Dean's unwavering trust?

Maybe.

A little.

It at least gave Dean pause and something to think about.

"Are we going to do This or stand around chit-chatting like a bunch of old birds?" Ketch asked, his gaze passing from Dean to Cas and back again. "Time is of the essence of we're to keep Dean from the clutches of Death."

Dean glared at Ketch. "Don't think for…" He drew another breath, finding it harder to speak and draw in oxygen, "a minute I forgot… your role in this."

"I never expected you to."

With some reluctance, Castiel helped Dean to his feet, keeping a right grip on him as Dean wobbled and nearly toppled over. Maybe it was a silly idea, his wanting to walk before Lucifer under his own strength, which he had very little of, but he was a Winchester and full of pride. He'd be damned if Lucifer saw him for as weak as he truly was, he wasn't about to loser every bargaining chip he had, if he even had any. Managing to stand, his arm wrapped around Cas's shoulders, Cas's arm around his waist—oh heavenly day, how wonderful—they approached the door.

"Are you sure about this, Dean? Once we step inside to see my brother there's no going back."

"Sure as I'll ever be. Besides," he smiled, attempting to make light of the situation, "what's he going to do, kill me?"

"He could by refusing to help," Ketch said, always the voice of reason.

"Better to die trying than to never try at all," Dean muttered.

"Good luck, Dean." The three of them jumped as Death appeared in the hallway with them. He leaned against the wall, both of his hands resting on the top of his cane.

"Uh, thanks," Dean grumbled.

Mere inches from the door, Castiel paused, waving his hand, palm facing the door, and muttering under his breath. The magic in the sigils blinked and spazzed, not quite going away but lessening the impulse to run. Ketch did the honors, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob and giving it a twist. As the door swung open it was like the shattering of glass, a cat hissing, nails on a chalkboard, and Dean winced, digging his nails into Cas. Heat wafted through the crack in the door and brought with it the pungent stink of silver and rotting corpses. Last time they'd foolishly visited Lucifer here it hadn't been this way, but Dean suspected the sensory stench was a gift from the bastard. Somehow he'd known. Somehow he'd been ready for them. Had he sensed Castiel much the way Cas still felt him? An unbreakable bond between brothers, one fallen and the other still trying to do right.

Perhaps Sam and I are a lot more like them than either of us would care to admit.

"Well, are you coming in, Dean, or are you going to keep me waiting? It's been so long since your last visit," the familiar voice slithered out of the room and across his skin, causing Dean to shiver. It nearly made him second guess his plan. "We have some catching up to do."


	8. Chapter 8

**Note:** I do apologize for the delay. I lost my beloved dog and my great-aunt within 2 weeks of each other. Just been a depressed couch potato. Getting back to my writing now. I've missed it.

* * *

Stepping over the threshold stole his breath, his heart stopping and his brain screaming for him to turn around, to find some shred of strength and look for another solution. Dean held tightly to Castiel, anchoring himself to the present, to the living, as they breached the layer of the beast. While Crowley tended to keep Hell, or at least his throne room, at a comfortable warmth, Lucifer preferred a more steam-room inspired environment, fresh droplets slickening Dean's skin. _Like being in a tropical jungle or traveling to the center of the earth, which may well be the truth. Don't people believe Hell is below us?_ He always suspected Hell operated the same way as Purgatory, like a pocket dimension. Not that it mattered in the long run. It wasn't his favorite place to visit so once they were done here he wasn't going to hit up a supernatural travel agency to book another trip.

All he wanted to do was get this over and done with.

Sam's support or not.

"Oh, dear sweet brother of mine, it's been so long," Lucifer drawled as they crept closer. The sound of his voice set the little hairs on Dean's arms and the back of his neck on edge. The primal instinct buried deep pleaded for him to leave. "And you brought my second favorite Winchester with you."

Dean frowned. "Second? Seriously?"

He stopped before the cage, a magical hum audible on the air. It was rather unimpressive in appearance, though he'd seen it before, resembling little more than a large cage meant for zoo animals. Or in this case, a monster. There were few amenities included since one never knew what form of entertainment Lucifer might seek, best not to give him any ideas. The beast himself sat on the far side, one leg pulled up, an arm resting on it, looking all the world like a casual human enjoying a sunny day in the park. The smile he wore whispered of nefarious things and the sparkle in his eyes shone with the fire of, well, Hell. _You can take the beast out of damnation but you can't take the damnation out of the beast._

Lucifer shrugged. "What can I say, Dean? Your brother and I will always have a special bond. I'm sure you know what I mean." Lucifer shifted his gaze. "Hello Castiel. How come you haven't come to visit more? It gets lonely down here. Has dad asked about me or is the old miser still missing and letting his children run amuck?"

"Can we get on with this?" Dean asked through clenched teeth.

On hands and knees, wickedly quick, Lucifer crossed to their side of the cage. He delicately wrapped the fingers of one hand around a bar, closing his eyes, and took a deep breath, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. "Oh Dean, you smell wonderfully of…" His eyes popped open. "Why, sweet Dean, you're dying. Your time has finally come."

"You will help him," Castiel ordered, taking a step forward.

Lucifer shrugged, sitting cross-legged. "Why should I? And what makes you think I can?" He tilted his head slightly, a dog catching a new sound, and Dean watched as Lucifer's gaze slipped past him and Dad to the figure lurking in the shadows behind them. "Hello again, Ketch. Lovely as always. Do they know? Do they know you came down here to see me and the things you asked of me?"

The Brit stepped into sight, cool and collected. "To a degree, yes. They're both aware that what's killing Dean is something I had my hands in creating."

"But did you tell them how you got what you wanted?"

Dean wavered, growing increasingly unsteady on his feet. They needed to speed things up or it would be too late, he could already feel the creeping hands of Death… There were ghosts in the room, flitting around the edges of his vision. He could hear them, the departed tortured souls, almost as though he'd been dropped into a one-way train to the After Life. Where could he change his ticket, exchange it for something more promising, a second chance? Y _ou've had more than your fair share of second chances, buddy boy._ While he'd gotten lost in thought Dean failed to initially realize the increase in temperature, the mercury rising to a blood boiling point, yet failing to chase away his chill.

His legs were going to give out. Dean gripped Castiel, no longer considered with appearing strong to Lucifer. Pride be damned.

"You took from me!" growled Lucifer, his focus still on Ketch. "You waltzed in here and took what you wanted. You treated me as little more than a lab specimen." He stood, glaring, fire blazing in his eyes. "I'm surprised you have the nerve to return, to stroll in here casually and what… What do you want?"

Hands clasped in front, Ketch refrained from showing emotion. "To apologize. I was merely following orders. Things have changed. I'm not that person anymore."

"Cas…" Dean whispered, tightening his grip further in hopes of remaining upright. Bile rose in the back of his throat, the humming of the magic growing unbearable until Dean have in, falling to his knees. The acidic taste morphed, replaced with the familiar copper tang of blood— _like taking a wicked blow to the jaw_ —and the desire to cough overtook him. Dean shook, his body wracked with each thunderous cough, the oxygen stolen from his lungs and replaced with… Spatters of blood hit the floor. "I…" He couldn't breath, clutching a hand to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric.

"Dean!" Castiel was right there at his side, a hand on his back, the other on his shoulder. "You have to help him," Cas barked. "He's dying!"

Ketch kneeled on his other side, and for a brief moment Dean wished it was Sam finally coming to his senses, but he welcomed the support anyway. _I don't want to die alone._ Tears wet his cheeks. _I don't want to die at all. Not here. Not like this. I knew my chances of living to be an old man were slim to none, but please, not like this… Please…_

"Why should I help him? Not only have the Winchesters been a constant thorn in my side, but Dean was one of my best… Pets."

"You will help him. I command it." There was thunder in Cas's tone.

Dean slipped further, falling into Ketch, finding his head in the Brit's lap. Definitely not the last face he wanted to see as the end neared, still, at least it was friendly and not a monster leaning down to tear out his throat.

"You are not my master. You will not order me around in my domain."

His heart began to slow, each breath more shallow than the last. _Sam… Sammy, you should be here._ "He…"

Ketch leaned closer. "What?"

"You are in no position to refuse," Castiel continued. "If humans can take from you so can I."

"Hel…"

Lucifer laughed.

"Shut up," snapped Ketch, somehow silencing the squabbling siblings. "What are you trying to say, Dean? What is it?"

"Hel…help…me."


	9. Chapter 9

He sat at the table in his bathrobe, munching on a bowl of sugary cereal and skimming through the weird news reports on the internet. The story of the man who claimed to see a UFO near a lake in Utah sounded like the rantings of a mad man or a fool so drunk on beer he'd forgotten what stars and airplanes looked like. The woman in Wisconsin, however, the one who swore she saw some weird lizard-like creature lurking around in the forest, that one might be worth checking into. Dean glanced at his watch, frowning, as he wondered where Sam was, he should have been up by now. They could hit the road, be in Wisconsin before nightfall and get a feel for the area. Dean was itching for a good case, feeling that simmering burn to hunt something and put down a monster before it claimed any more victims.

He chased a few soggy marshmallow shapes around the bowl, managing to catch them and swallowed them without much need to chew.

The wall…glitched.

Dean stared, certain he'd been mistaken. Walls didn't do that sort of thing. Right? Maybe he'd turned his head too fast and it was a trick of the imagination. Maybe after years of dealing with angels and demons, heaven and hell, purgatory, and every other Twilight Zone adventure that befell them, he was losing his mind. It was quite possible. There were ramblings in his father's journal about a hunter that went mad, lost his mind, and wound up having to be put out of his misery before he alerted the whole world to the things that went bump in the night and started mass panic.

Maybe he…

But it did it again.

Startled, Dean pushed away from the table. For good measure he ran a hand over his face. He stared, willing it to do it again while at the same time wanting it to remain solid the way a wall should. Minutes ticked by. Nothing happened. The sound of footsteps echoing in the hall singled the approach of what he assumed to be Sam and he shifted his gaze to the entryway expecting to see his brother any moment.

Only, it didn't play out that way.

"Hello Dean," Lucifer smiled, a wicked twinkle of hellfire in his eyes. The damned man leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually over his chest as though they were about to engage in pleasant chitchat. "Always a pleasure to see you Winchesters, have I ever told you that?"

Dean wished for the angel blade he usually kept about his person, but it was on his nightstand. Why'd he need it for breakfast? The last thing he anticipated was an encounter in the bunker, especially one of this degree, especially considering…

For the second time that morning Dean furled his brow, this time in a scowl mixed of confusion and annoyance. "You're dead."

"Oh no, Dean, you're the one dying. I'm just hanging out in a cage in Hell playing solitaire while waiting for the world to end. That is, until you came to visit me. Quite nice of you, really, but you could have brought a little something. Hell is boring under Crowely's rule." Lucifer pouted, of all things. "He never let's me have any play toys."

"Seriously, man?"

Where are you, Sam? You should be here, Sammy. You're always here.

"Shall we talk?"

"Like I'm buying any of this bullshit," Dean growled. He made to move, figuring he could do something, anything, even without the angel blade. The kitchen was chockfull of any number of potential weapons, and enough of a ruckus might bring Sam running with the demon blade.

But his progress was halted when Lucifer shifted his position, standing, and snapping his fingers.

The bunker disappeared.

The walls turned bleak and the temperature shot up.

His bathrobe was replaced with clothing he'd normally wear while out skulking about the woods searching for vampires or werewolves. And gone was the lingering sugary sweetness of the marshmallows, replaced with the copper sting of blood.

The dream faded.

Dean hitched a breath, drawing in even a miniscule amount of oxygen requiring a Herculean effort and prompting pain in his ribs. He found himself prone on the floor as apposed to sitting at the table or preparing to do battle with the fallen angel, and Ketch, of all people, loomed over him, worrying and anger dancing in his eyes.

"Ah, there you are," he said in his British accent, a faint ghostly smile appearing on his lips. "Thought we'd lost you for good."

Dean clutched at Ketch's shirt. He wanted to be back in the bunker, back in the kitchen with his bowl of cereal and its childish jokes written on the back. Anything but here, the last place he ever hoped to be again, the fees he'd done when his soul belonged to Hell always ready to spring forth and remind him of his terrible truth. I've done horrible, terrible things my whole life, all in the name of protecting the innocent, but what I did down here… A cough wracked his body and stole what precious little oxygen he had. His brain screamed, his lungs burned.

"I tried to do this the easy way," Lucifer was saying from where he was contained in the cage. "Whisked him away for a little one on one brain time and…" Dean imagined Lucifer must have shrugged at this point. "Dean never did play well with others did he?"

"Save him," Cas growled.

"I'm not entirely sure I can, brother. Whatever Mr. Posh Pants and his fellow monster nerds cooked up, it could be beyond even me. Have you tried? Last I checked you were the one with a link to Heaven and all its mighty power. Not me."

"I tried."

"And failed?" Lucifer chuckled. "My, my, maybe the time has finally come for one of the Winchesters to be permanently dead. Wouldn't that be grand? I wonder where his soul will go this time. Too tainted for Heaven, rejected by Purgatory, hunted for in Hell… So many burned bridges."

Dean clutched at Ketch tighter, moving his lips and praying for some sound to come forth. Tearing his gaze from the continued dispute between the brothers, Ketch leaned down, turning his head slightly to hear the whispers Dean choked.

"Death…told…" Ketch sat bolt up. When he spoke his voice drowned out the other two. "Death told him to come here."

"Death?" Lucifer said, sinking across the cage on his hands and knees. "The old badger wants to save a Winchester again? Whatever for? You've ruined so many of his plans and screwed up the balance of things countless times. Why do you get saved again?"

"Please," Dean pleaded, his eyes wet with tears. By now the pain had dissipated, but not in a positive way. He was cold. Colder than he'd ever recalled being before, though he'd experienced the touch of the darkness, of death before, and I re his time was running out. "Help."

"What do I get out of it?"

"I won't smite you into oblivion," threatened Cas.

"Like you could."

"Death could," Ketch countered, an edge to his words. "And we all know what happens to your kind when you die."

Lucifer let out an overly dramatic sigh. "Fine. Bring him over here."

There was no point in trying to keep quiet, a scream tearing forth from Dean as together Cas and Ketch manhandled him toward the cage. Every fiber of his being, just moments ago numb with the cold of the grave, buzzed like a million little bee stings. He'd never felt anything like it, even the time he tangled with hell hounds. He barely fought back the urge to scream again, wondering why his cry of agony hadn't brought Sam running. Has he turned his back on me? Has he decided he no longer… NO! Stop that train of thought right this moment. He loves me. We're brothers.

But even as that thought crossed his mind Dean came face to face with Lucifer, a man the exact opposite of his beloved Cas, and they were brothers, too.

Lucifer smiled. "I hope you enjoy this…"


End file.
